Job Hunt (8 page)

“Fine. Have it your way,” he submitted and reached to unlock the door.

B
ESTING
J
ACK
’
S
quick mind in an argument was not easy, so Gareth was grateful when Jack stopped fighting. It got them off the street and inside the house. It had worried him that Jack didn’t seem to notice how badly he was shivering. But after hearing that Jack had consumed nothing but whisky, water, and chemicals since Wednesday lunchtime when it was now very early Friday morning, Gareth wasn’t too surprised.

He slipped out of his shoes and watched as Jack sank down on the large solid oak blanket box that took up the space below the mirror. He yanked on his boots to remove them, but the leather was stiff, and the angle was awkward. Gareth took pity when Jack started swearing. He reached over and pulled on the heel until he held Jack’s right boot in his hand.

“That your idea of going armed?” He pointed to the stitched pocket in the inside of the boot, and Jack nodded.

“Can’t hide stuff very well the way I’m dressed,” he said, a dull blush staining his cheekbones. “The boots are my armory.” He pulled off the other one and turned it around so the back faced Gareth. “Stiletto,” he said as he ran his thumb up the broad leather strip at the back of the boot. “CS gas and a Taser in the heels. Another knife in each sole.”

“No range weapons?” Gareth was pleased his voice came out level. The sight of Jack in bare feet and skin-tight leather did things to his mind and body he didn’t want to contemplate right then.

“As if.” Jack’s fingers rubbed over the leather cuff on his wrist. “You taught me better than that.”

“I damn well hope so,” Gareth growled and set the boot down. “Go grab a shower. I’ll fix you some food.”

Jack flushed bright red in less than a heartbeat. “You don’t have to do that!”

“I know.” Gareth rose, took Jack’s shoulders in a firm grip, and turned the man around until he faced the stairs. “Shower. Now.”

Jack went, with only a halfhearted complaint mumbled under his breath. Moments later Gareth heard the sound of rushing water from upstairs and hastily retreated toward the kitchen. Bare feet and leather were quite enough to rattle his cage. There was really no need to tempt his control with images of a dripping Jack clad only in a towel.

While Jack showered, Gareth surveyed the kitchen. The replica Victorian stove was stunning, as were the period tiles and the restored cast-iron fireplace, but that’s where the impressive display ended. Having seen Jack in tight black leather, Gareth wasn’t surprised when he didn’t find an awful lot of food to choose from. He located bread, butter, sugar, cinnamon and milk and was pleased as punch when he could add cream and top-quality dark cocoa powder to his small stash. He would feed Jack cinnamon toast and cinnamon-laced hot chocolate, sweet enough to calm Jack’s jangling nerves and rich enough to help put a bit of padding back on the lean frame.

Decision made and linear plan established, Gareth set a frying pan on the stove to heat while he cut two slices of bread into fingers. He added a hefty chunk of butter to the frying pan and while he waited for it to melt, he mixed the ingredients for the hot chocolate in another saucepan and placed that on the stove too.

It took just a few minutes to soak the toast in melted butter and dredge it in sugar and cinnamon before placing it under the grill. And only a few moments more before he had a plate of hot toast and a huge mug of warm, spicy cocoa all ready.

“God, that smell!” Jack groaned as he stepped into the kitchen. “I’ve just died and gone to heaven.”

He had changed into jogging bottoms and a deep green rugby shirt. His hair was damp, his feet were bare, and Gareth made a determined effort not to drool.

“Like?”

“Definitely,” Jack settled himself at the kitchen table. “I’d forgotten how handy you are in the kitchen.”

“And around a campfire, don’t forget that.”

“How could I? We used to be the envy of the whole brigade. All we had to do was
find
food, and dinner was taken care of. Nobody else had it that easy!”

Gareth grinned, watching the toast disappear at light speed and wondering if he should make more. “Maybe I should have taught you how to cook it too. But what’s the benefit of being in charge if I can’t do what I like best?”

“That I can find me a mountain of food, but then still starve to death?”

There was a twinkle in Jack’s eyes that Gareth was glad to see. “That is a handicap,” he agreed. “And one I need to take responsibility for. Maybe a few cookery lessons are in order.”

“Tried that,” Jack said around a mouthful of crunchy toast, washing it down with a large swallow of hot chocolate. “Our local curry house did a cookery evening, and I went along to learn how to make their lamb phall.” He set the mug on the table and leaned back in the chair. “Let’s just say… it didn’t end well.”

“How so?” The blush on Jack’s face intrigued Gareth enough to keep at it.

“Well….” Jack picked up the mug and hid his face. “I set the ingredients on fire.”

Gareth bit his lip in a valiant effort not to laugh, but it was useless. “That’s one way to get a hot curry.”

“It’s not funny!”

“Yes it is,” Gareth disagreed. “I didn’t think I’d almost have a curry house on my conscience. They still serve you?”

“With great enthusiasm,” Jack admitted. “They don’t want to see the neighborhood go up in flames any more than I do.”

“Never thought I’d screw up that badly,” Gareth admitted. “But I’ll make up for it. I promise. I’ll teach you how to cook without starting the next Great Fire of London.”

“Good luck with that,” Jack grumbled, draining his mug and holding it up. “Is there any more?”

“Sure.” Gareth reheated the remaining chocolate and refilled Jack’s mug. “Can’t believe that your police friends don’t look after you better,” he mused. “What do you usually do after one of these stunts? Just go home and dine on takeaway and beer?”

Jack managed a lopsided grin. “That. And put my memory to use.”

“Missing persons?”

“Yes,” Jack sighed over his next sip of hot chocolate. “Clive always wants me to look through his database of perverts, but if I’ve spotted any likely kids—like those two boys tonight—I’d rather find out about them.”

Their earlier banter had eased the tension in Jack’s frame, but now his shoulders crept toward his ears once more. Without a word Gareth rose and stepped behind Jack’s chair.

“Do you think they can be helped?” he asked as he dropped his hands to Jack’s shoulders and started to rub the tight muscles.

“If they’re strong enough.” Jack relaxed into Gareth’s touch with a soft exhale. “You don’t ever get out of hell undamaged. It tends to spit you out in jagged pieces. And sometimes it takes just too much effort to put yourself back together.”

“I’ve always wondered how you knew that.”

“Now you know.”

“No, I don’t,” Gareth disagreed. He slid his fingers down to Jack’s shoulder blades, feeling the tightness in the trim frame and wanting to ease it. “I have a very faint idea. At most.”

The rugby shirt’s collar hampered Gareth’s fingertips on the upward stroke, and he slipped his hand around to Jack’s chest to undo the top button. The fabric loosened, and Gareth’s fingers slid inside to push it wide… when Jack shot out of the chair and away from Gareth as if he’d been burned.

“Don’t!”

C
HAPTER
SEVEN
C
OMING
H
OME

J
ACK
TURNED
away at the same time as Gareth reached for him and yanked him back. His shirt tore open, revealing a thin strip of leather embossed with an intricate Celtic pattern around his neck. Jack flushed a dull red and stood rigid under Gareth’s scrutiny, staring anywhere but at the man before him.

Gareth brushed fingers over the soft leather, tracing long-gone bloodstains. “I remember this,” he said, awed as the past came calling in the most unexpected way. His closest brush with death was a fractured memory of heat and sand, shouting voices, and the metallic scent and taste of blood. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness a good deal, especially toward the end, but he remembered Jack tearing the battered leather strip from Gareth’s arm and using it to fashion a tourniquet.

He had never before considered the whereabouts of that particular strip of leather, and the fact that Jack
wore
it staggered and enlightened Gareth as much as Jack’s rigid stance and flushed face. Memories and old observations aligned like the tumblers in a complicated lock and opened up chances he’d not even dared to dream about. The choice was easy, though, and a moment later, he pinned Jack against the wall and pushed their lips together. For a small eternity—no more than a breath or two—Jack stood frozen. Then he melted into the kiss with a soft moan that went straight to Gareth’s groin.

“You blithering idiot! Why didn’t you say something?” Gareth demanded when he drew back from the kiss, his breathing ragged. It was so easy to get lost in Jack, all cinnamon and chocolate and heat, as if Jack was a treat designed specifically for Gareth’s senses.

“Yeah, like you did?” Jack sounded peeved.

“That’s different. Back then, I couldn’t make the first move.”

“Same reason,” Jack shot back. “I didn’t want to jeopardize your career, either.”

“My career? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Then why?”

“Your age, moron!” Gareth snarled. “Never been one for cradle snatching.”

“My age?” Jack’s wide-eyed stare would have been comical, but for the outrage in the gray-green depths. “That’s your excuse?” he demanded hotly. “I was old enough to go out and get shot, for Christ’s sake!”

They stared at each other until Gareth reached out and cupped Jack’s cheek. “I realize that,” he acknowledged, voice wry. “Only thing I can say is that—at the time—it felt all wrong. And given what I’ve learnt tonight….”

Jack turned his head and let his lips brush Gareth’s palm. “That’s not the same, and you know it,” he said, the fire in his eyes replaced with certainty. “With you, I would’ve had a choice.”

“You still do.”

“Then stay here?”

Gareth hesitated a heartbeat too long. Hurt bloomed across Jack’s face.

“If you don’t want….”

The rest was cut off as Gareth crushed Jack back against the wall. “What
I
want?” He breathed across Jack’s ear and relished the shiver that ran through the lithe form in his arms. “I’ll tell you what
I
want, brat. Rip every piece of fabric off you. Taste every inch of you. Screw you into the nearest available surface until you scream my name. And then do it again.” He bit down on an earlobe until Jack arched helplessly against him. “Been wanting that for years. Just so we’re clear.”

He drew away, just far enough to pull Jack’s chin up and meet the wide eucalyptus-colored eyes. “Still doesn’t mean that staying’s a good idea. You’re strung out and tired, Jack. And tense as a bow.”

“Help me relax?”

“Yeah, I could,” Gareth sighed. “But I don’t want you to regret this tomorrow morning.”

“Regret it?” Jack touched fingertips to the strip of leather around his throat. “Does this look like I’ll regret… anything?”

Gareth sighed. He was doing a lot of that lately, and it wasn’t doing him any good. Why was he fighting anyway? He didn’t want to leave. And Jack…. Jack wanted him to stay. “My rules,” he growled before his brain had realized he’d opened his mouth. “I stay, but we play by my rules.”

Gareth expected dissent, but if anything Jack looked relieved. “Just… stay,” he pleaded. “I don’t need another hangover, but….”

“I remember.” Gareth nuzzled a line from Jack’s ear down his neck, tasting skin as he went and loving it. “Massage oil?”

“Bathroom.”

Jack’s answer was breathy. Gareth pushed away from the wall and the warm body he’d pinned against it, grinning when Jack swallowed a protesting whine. “Strip and get facedown on the bed,” he ordered and went to find himself some massage oil.

Compared to the muted chaos of Jack’s bedroom, where makeup, club clothes, and weapons warred for space on floor and dresser, the bathroom was neat and well supplied. Besides various massage oils, Gareth spotted bath bombs, bath salts, and a few waterproof toys that set his mind racing, but he shelved the wayward thoughts. Tonight’s objective was getting Jack to relax. Fun and games could wait.

He repeated that to himself a few more times for emphasis as he returned to the bedroom and found Jack stretched out on the deep green sheets. He had his head on a pillow and eyes on the bathroom door. The sheer want in the gray-green gaze did amazing things to Gareth’s insides. It also made him question the sanity of his decision to stay. Again.

“You’re a beautiful sight, brat.” His gaze slid appreciatively over the endless legs, firm ass, and finely muscled back and arms. He knelt beside the bed so his face was level with Jack’s. “Beautiful… and tempting… and far too tense.” He punctuated each word with a soft brush of lips, pulling back when Jack reached for more contact.

“Take a deep breath in. Let it out slowly. Good. Again.” The fingers of Gareth’s right hand slid into Jack’s hair and rubbed soothing circles over his scalp. “I want you completely relaxed,” he said softly against Jack’s ear. “Release all tension, and let me work, okay?”

He waited for the nod before he traced the shell of Jack’s ear with his tongue, his fingers pressing more firmly on Jack’s scalp. With an explosive exhale, Jack tried to lean into one touch and away from the other, unable to do either.

“There’s a reward if you do as I say,” Gareth tempted, voice low and seductive. He relished the shudder that rippled through Jack’s frame. He loved it even more when Jack closed his eyes and forced his muscles to soften.

“Just like that,” Gareth praised. He shed his shirt, reached for the lavender-scented oil and climbed up on the bed to straddle Jack’s hips. “Hands under your head,” he instructed as he poured oil into his hands to warm it. “I’ll start on your shoulders and work my way across your back. I want you to stay relaxed at all times. Got it?”